by Tripp Ellis
Death Grid
Game of Valor
Tripp Ellis
Tripp Ellis
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Thank You!
You Can Help!
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Copyright © 2018 by Tripp Ellis
All rights reserved. Worldwide.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental, and not intended to refer to any living person or to disparage any company’s products or services.
No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, uploaded, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter devised, without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” a panicked voice shouted, crackling over the comm channel. It was slathered in fear, desperation, and hopelessness. The incessant clatter of weapons fire swirled around the voice, the dull rumble of artillery rounds clamoring in the distance.
The man’s panic was infectious. Fear always is.
“They’re all over us!” he screeched. “Almighty, this is Echo 3, adjust fire, over!”
Another voice responded over the radio. “Echo 3, Almighty. Adjust fire, over.”
“Grid Romeo-Sierra-745-884. Danger close, over.”
“Grid Romeo-Sierra-745-884, over.”
Within moments, a hail of artillery pummeled LZ-Kilo.
I never heard Echo 3’s voice again.
My heart pounded in my chest. A thin coat of sweat covered my body. The Saharan Desert was wetter than my mouth. In a few minutes, I was going to be at LZ-Kilo.
The nightmare was about to begin.
I clutched my weapon, gripping the cold steel. A fifth appendage. An inseparable part of me. Without it, I am useless. Or, at least, so says the creed we all say.
The solemn faces of my squad filled the passenger compartment of the UZ-760 NightHawk. The massive engines ripped the air. Wind buffeted against the open side doors, and the warm thick air swirled through the compartment. The NightHawk smelled like steel, grease, stale crusted blood, and canvas webbing. The dropship took us into the field every day and brought us back—sometimes alive, and sometimes not-so-much.
We all had a love-hate relationship with the NightHawk pilots. They brought us into the crappiest of places and took us out, like angels of mercy descending from the heavens.
Slick hung in the doorway with his weapon pointing down at the thick bush below. His M-679 light machine gun was a devastating piece of equipment, capable of a cyclic rate of 1000 rounds a minute. It was 22 pounds of fury. Firing a weapon that powerful made you feel like God. And Slick loved feeling like God. He had a thin smile permanently etched on his lips. This war was hell, and Slick was enjoying every moment of it.
Nearly a decade of terraforming had turned the surface of Kronos 6 into a lush jungle. An endless verdant canopy with multiple shades of green covered the former wasteland. It was thick and nasty. Microorganisms that had remained dormant in the soil for eons sprang to life in the now tropical environment. Bacteria, viruses, insect larva. We had all been immunized before setting foot on the planet, but they were finding new diseases every day. There were a million ways to die on Kronos besides a bullet—some of them made a bullet seem like not such a bad way to go.
You could make a lot of excuses about why we were here—preserving freedom and democracy, providing humanitarian aid to indigenous peoples, liberating the oppressed—but in truth, it was all about the vilmantium. With a value of more than a thousand times that of gold, the excavation and processing of the rare ore was the driving force behind our military involvement on Kronos. The Tharsis quadrangle had the highest concentration of ore on the entire planet, and had been the subject of continual conflict.
Our government had said, “Hey we’re going to take your shitty desert planet and convert it into a lush paradise. You’ll have access to agriculture, freshwater, and better living conditions.”
It all sounded good, but nobody really bothered to ask the people of Kronos. They were pretty happy with their shitty desert planet as it was.
All of that was above my pay grade. I had joined the Marines to serve my country. They told me who to kill, and I did it. And I tried not to get myself mangled in the process.
I was seven months into a thirteen month deployment. 1st Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment. Part of the 9th Space Expeditionary Force. Zulu company had lost 40% of its original personnel. FNGs (Fucking New Guys) were rotating in on a daily basis, it seemed.
Juggler, Fist, and Bugs were the old-timers left in my squad. It’s hard to think of yourself as an old timer at 22. Some of these kids look like they hadn’t even graduated high school.
I had known Bugs since recruit training. He was a short guy with an infectious smile who never met a stranger. He could strike up a conversation with just about anyone. Always the life of the party. He had earned the nickname just after graduation when an encounter with an amorous red-head left him with a nasty case of crotch critters.
Even as we approached the LZ, Bugs seemed calm and content, flashing a grin that belonged in a toothpaste commercial. It wasn’t that he necessarily enjoyed combat, he just figured there wasn’t any sense worrying about it. He was either going to make it through the day, or he wasn’t. Freaking out about it wasn’t going to change the fact. It was a quality that I envied. We had all come to accept death as an eventuality, more so than a mere possibility. We were far enough into the tour that none of us let ourselves hold out hope that we might make it home alive. Thoughts like that could be a distraction. We were all superstitious luck-freaks, but thinking too much about home could send you over the top. I’d seen guys become paralyzed with fear. They became hesitant. Overly cautious. They wound up getting greased.
Molten death filled the air as we reached LZ-Kilo. Bullets streaked in all directions.
Staccato bursts of gunfire, like strings of firecrackers, popped incessantly.
The Nighthawk pilot didn’t even let the skids touch the ground. He wasn’t going to hang around any longer than he had to.
I leapt from the fuselage, tumbled to the ground, and flattened myself against the dirt. I could hear the snap of bullets overhead. I could feel the artillery blasts rumbling the ground. The air had grown thick with smoke and the sharp smell of gunpowder. Rounds pinged off the metal armor of the Nighthawk.
Bugs was dead before he hit the ground. A bullet had caught him in the throat, painting his neck crimson red.
My stomach twisted in knots, and my throat tightened. My face tensed and it felt like I had been hollowed out. Bugs was my best friend, now the dirt was soaking up his blood.
2
Geysers of dirt erupted from the berm in front of me as a hail of bullets rained down. I hugged the dirt, flattening myself behind the almost imperceptible ridge. The air cracked with the snap of bullets overhead.
LZ Kilo was the only clearing for several miles. Some genius had decided this was the best location to dump 400 Marines. But there was only enough room for a few NightHawks to land at any given time. Instead of a massive campaign of shock-and-awe, it was a slow trickle of Marines deposited in the middle of an ambush.
The battalion commander had gotten intel that rebel forces had massed in the Acidalia hills. They had been using it as a base of operations to carry out attacks on nearby mining facilities. Colonel Greyson had devised the operation. Our mission was to secure the area and capture, or kill, the enemy.
I angled my MK-18 over the berm and squeezed a flurry of rounds into the tree line.
CLACK!
CLACK!
CLACK!
The recoil pummeled my shoulder.
My tactical contact lenses enhanced my vision. A heads-up-display linked me with the other members of my platoon. I could see their position relative to mine. Bio-chip implants updated vital statistics. At a glance, I could see my heartbeat, blood pressure, and oxygen saturation, as well as the overall status of the platoon. KIA's were tracked, making the bodies easier to recover. Their status was updated to the mil-net in real time. Target tracking identified threats and helped to distinguish friend from foe. Since the implementation of bio-chips, deaths by friendly fire had dropped by 73.67%.
It made the battlefield seem like a video game, although you couldn't re-spawn.
My body was protected by the WarTek™ X-7600 Advanced Tactical Body Armor. It was made from a lightweight composite that could withstand a direct hit from a 7.62 mm round at close range—or so the literature said. Real-world application was a little different. Sure, a direct hit on one of the armor plates would slow the forward progression of a bullet. But a hit in one of the seams, or in a flex point, could penetrate the armor, and the wearer.
Of course, if you had the money, you could spring for the upgraded X-8600, made from a stronger composite. But on a grunt’s salary, it would take you 10 years to pay off the upgrade.
My mom was worried sick about me. She was going to dip into her retirement to pay for an X-8600, but I wouldn’t let her. I assured her I was going to be okay. I kept the details of this place to myself. She didn’t need to know what a hellhole Kronos was. I’m sure she was having a hard enough time sleeping as it was.
I told her we were here strictly in an advisory capacity. It was a well-meaning lie, but I think she knew better. She pretended not to know, and I pretended Kronos was just shy of a tropical vacation.
“Sergeant Archer,” the 2nd lieutenant shouted. His voice crackled in my earbud. “Take your squad and cover the east flank. If they take the LZ, this whole operation is screwed. Move!”
“Aye-aye, sir!”
This was 2nd Lieutenant Thompson first combat operation. He’d been with us for less than a week, replacing Lieutenant Jenkins, who got wasted on our previous op. As they say, the most dangerous thing on the battlefield is a 2nd lieutenant with a map and a compass. Thompson was right about one thing… the enemy was trying to flank us.
I put down a stream of suppressive fire and commanded my squad to advance to the east. “You heard the LT! Move! Move! Move!”
I pushed from the dirt and followed Juggler and Fist as the squad shifted position.
Bullets ripped through the air. They were so close I could feel the breeze as they zipped past my ear.
PLUNK!
PLUNK!
Two bullets tore into the belly of Private Wayne Robertson. Blood splattered as he crumpled to the dirt. He screamed in agony, gurgling for breath as his lungs filled with fluid. His body writhed and convulsed, and his skin grew pale and clammy. His pale blue eyes turned into a tumultuous sea of despair.
The rebels must have been using armor piercing rounds. They bore through the composite armor like it were paper.
Robertson was 18 and fresh out of recruit training. He had just arrived on Kronos last week. He was still naïve enough to think that we were all making a difference here—he couldn’t wait to get in the shit.
He had married his high school sweetheart before he left for recruit training. The news that she was pregnant sent him over the moon. She was due in late October. Nobody had the heart to tell him that with 13 weeks of recruit training, and another 8 of space infantry training, the math didn’t add up. He couldn’t have been the father.
I reached down and grasped the grab handle on his back plate, by the collar. I heaved and dragged him to a nearby berm as chaos swirled around me.
I dropped to the dirt. “Corpsman!”
My eyes flicked around the battlefield, looking for Rodriguez. His body lay in the blood-soaked grass 20 yards back.
Son-of-a-bitch!
I flipped the latches to Robertson’s body armor and peeled away his chest plate, exposing his blood-soaked abdomen. The blood made his green camo blouse look chocolate brown. I placed the palm of my hands over his wounds and applied pressure, trying to stop the bleeding. But it was like trying to stop a tsunami.
The clatter of an M-679 rattled in my ear as Corporal Dixon unleashed hell at the advancing rebels. It was ear-splitting. The barrel was starting to glow.
Warm blood oozed between my fingers, covering my hands. “Hang in there, buddy. You’re going to be okay.”
It was a blatant lie, and we both knew it.
3
Less than ten minutes on the ground, and the platoon was down by half. A continual stream of NightHawks dropped off more troops behind me. They were meeting the same fate.
Two Zephyr Z4s screeched across the sky. They were sleek attack fighters that had been adapted for close air support. I watched as they released their deadly cargo. Silver canisters of napalm toppled end over end, tumbling to the ground. They erupted in brilliant balls of fire that covered the tree line with a blanket of flames. Orange fire and black smoke rolled into the sky. The air filled with the sharp scent of gasoline. The ground was charred black, and trees burned. I could see the rebels flail about, burning to a crisp—the gooey incendiary liquid clinging to them like a demonic glue. Shrill screeches of agony filled the air. I watched as the enemies fell to the ground, seared to a crisp.
It was a horrific site.
With the tree line clear, we could now advance. I moved my squad forward, into the scorched earth. With another several platoons on the ground now, we pushed the enemy back, retreating into the hills. The once incessant clatter of gunfire trickled down to sparse exchanges.
The area looked like a burned out moonscape. It was pocked and cratered. Charred black with soot.
“We’ve got a live one here, Sarge!” Juggler yelled.
One of the rebels was still squirming on the ground. The most horrible sound billowed out of his mouth—a wet sloppy scream. 80% of his body was covered in burns. His legs looked like logs that had sat on the fire for too long. Half his face was covered in burns, charred and blistered. His skin looked like a blackened pizza.
The squad surro
unded him, weapons ready to fire. But at this point, he didn’t pose much of a threat.
“Get a translator up here,” I said.
“1-1-Zulu, this is 2-2-Alpha,” a voice said, crackling over the comm channel. It belonged to Staff Sergeant Dean of Alpha company, otherwise known as Mad Dog. Helluva poker player. He was the kind of guy who could get anything. Cigarettes, liquor, Superbowl tickets, girls, black market goods, you name it. He had connections everywhere. “We’re going to pursue the rebels north. Over.”
“1-1-Zulu, actual. Roger that,” the LT said over the comm line. “We’ll mop up here and gather intel, then we’re right behind you.”
Within a few minutes, Talvar arrived on the site. He was part of the indigenous tribe of Utabi. They were an alien bipedal race with purple skin that was creased and weathered like an elephant. They had evolved for eons to thrive in arid climates, and the terraforming of Kronos had made the atmosphere uncomfortable for them.
Instead of choosing to fight for the rebels, Talvar had joined the Utabi Republic Army, and was assigned as a translator to Zulu platoon. He had actually studied in the Federation on Cygnus 5. He seemed like a good guy, and was always quick with a bad joke, but like a lot of the URA, we weren’t 100% on where his loyalties stood.
